


Mirror Image

by ami_ven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Magic Mirrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25799947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven
Summary: A magic mirror gives Dean, Sam and Cas a glimpse into their inner selves.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 60





	Mirror Image

For once, they had some apocalypse-free down time and they could finally start sorting through the many, many dusty rooms of the Men of Letters bunker.

The first few rooms were all records, battered file cabinets and ancient cardboard boxes filled with neatly-labeled files. As much as Sam would have loved to stop and go through them, he agreed that since they weren’t immediately useful or dangerous, his ‘pleasure reading’ could wait.

Farther down the hall, they found the first of the artifact rooms. Deep wooden shelves held jars and boxes, some objects covered with cloths and some just sitting out in the open. There was a kind of tension in the air, that made even Dean hesitate.

“Uh, hey, Cas?” he said, aloud. “We’re doing a little spring cleaning. Got any time to lend a hand?”

Almost immediately, there was a rustle of wings. “Hello, Dean, Sam.”

“Hi, Cas,” said Sam. “We’re going through some of this stuff the Men of Letters left, and we could use your help.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “There is power here.”

“Like, _evil_ power?” asked Dean. “Or, like, give-you-superpowers power?”

The angel tilted his head, considering. “Not evil,” he said. “Though any type of power could be used for an evil purpose.”

“We’ll be careful,” said Sam. “Any special precautions we should take?”

“Ordinary gloves should be sufficient,” Cas said, nodding toward the yellow rubber gloves in the bucket of cleaning supplies they’d brought along. “Most cursed objects require direct contact with skin or blood.”

“Well, we’ll try not to bleed on anything,” said Dean. “Let’s do this.”

*

“Looks like pretty basic stuff,” said Sam, an hour or so later. 

Most of the objects seemed to have fairy tale-level magic on them – a necklace to make the wearer look more beautiful, a stone to be dropped into a cup and make the drinker immediately break out in hives – though a few had promise to be useful later, like the set of knives each in a different monster-killing metal or the box of mints that claimed to cure any poison.

“Hey, what about this?” asked Dean.

Along the far wall, behind the second row of shelves, hung something that glinted faintly gold, mostly concealed by a plank of wood leaning against it. He pulled the plank away and grinned at his own reflection.

“Nice.”

Sam came up beside him. “If you weren’t so busy admiring yourself,” he said, “you might have noticed something else.”

“A giant moose with no sense of personal space?” his brother suggested. 

“This mirror is not accurately reflecting this room,” said Cas.

It wasn’t. While the room behind the actual Dean, Sam and Cas was the bunker storeroom, their reflections stood in front of a single empty room, with white marble floors and wood paneled walls.

“Huh,” said Sam. “I wonder if there’s a label on—”

He turned to look at the frame of the mirror and tripped on the board that Dean was still holding loosely at his side. Sam toppled, crashing into Dean, who threw out an arm to catch their fall – his bare elbow touched the surface of the mirror just as Cas caught Sam’s arm.

There was a blinding flash – and then they were on the other side.

*

Dean blinked trying to clear his vision. “Where are we?”

“In the mirror,” said Cas, reprovingly.

“ _In the mirror_? Sam repeated. “Are we trapped?”

“No,” said Cas. “But we cannot simply leave.”

“What?” said Dean. “Do we have to defeat the Queen of Hearts at croquet?”

“There are no royalty or lawn sports required.”

“No, Cas, it’s from a book,” said Sam. “Or a Disney movie. But never mind, how _do_ we get out of here?”

“The magic of this mirror was for the purpose of self-contemplation,” Cas said. “The user would be able to see an image of how they perceive themselves, and better understand their own mind, heart and soul.”

“Awesome,” said Dean. “But there’s three of us. Won’t we, you know, confuse it?”

“Perhaps,” the angel replied. “But we may also be able to help each other.”

“How?” asked Sam. “There’s nothing here but this empty room.”

As if on cue, a door appeared in the wall, wood like the paneling, with a gleaming brass handle. A brass plaque at about eye-level read _Samuel Winchester_.

“Looks like you’re up first, Sammy.”

Cas paused. “I do not believe it would be wise to split up,” he said. “Please know that I will not judge either of you on anything I see.”

“I’m going to hold you both to that,” said Sam, and opened the door.

At first it looked like they had suddenly stepped outside. But after a moment, the corners of the walls, floor and ceiling became visible, like the scene was just a projection onto them. It even felt like the outdoors, though, a light breeze carrying the low hum of insects.

Then, there was a familiar rumble and the Impala rolled to a stop in the grass a few feet away. The back passenger door opened and Cas got out, almost identical to the Cas standing next to them, except that real-Cas was still wearing the yellow dishwashing gloves he’d put on to protect his vessel from any spells or curses.

Mirror-Cas appeared not to see them, turning to watch mirror-Dean get out of the front passenger seat. He looked just like real-Dean, with a leather jacket on over the same plaid shirt real-Dean was wearing.

The driver’s door opened and Sam was surprised to be unsurprised that it was his father. Mirror-John looked like he had just before he’d died, but steadier, somehow. Sam was so busy looking at what was apparently his own mental image of his family that he almost missed the fourth person getting out of the Impala – himself.

Mirror-Sam was about six years old, small for his age before his massive growth spurt at the beginning of high school. He hurried to keep up with the three adults as they opened the Impala’s trunk and began handing around weapons. Mirror-Sam struggled under the weight of the shotgun that mirror-John gave him, stumbling over his feet in an effort to keep up.

“Sammy.” The voice came in stereo – barked by mirror-Dean and murmured by the Dean standing just behind him.

Sam blinked and focused on his real brother. “Um…”

“This is a visualization of your subconscious feelings,” said Cas. “I believe you feel young and inexperienced, so the mirror presents the image of yourself as a child.”

“I – Thanks, Cas,” said Sam. “But how do I fight it?”

The angel shook his head. “This mirror is not an enemy, Sam. I don’t believe you need to overcome your feelings, just acknowledge and accept them.”

“Right,” said Sam. “Just acknowledge and accept my deepest, darkest feelings.”

“Hey,” said Dean, staring after mirror-Sam. “You got this.”

“Do I?”

“I have great faith in you, Sam,” said Cas. “And… I feel honored, to be included in your family.”

“Of course,” said Sam. “You _are_ family.”

“Thank you.”

Sam smiled, then asked, “Can I talk to him? Me, I mean. The other me.”

“He is part of your own mind,” the angel said. “But, yes. These images should ignore us until we engage them directly.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “Okay, I’ll… Hey, um, Sam?”

The smaller version of himself turned and came over. As he walked, the three mirror-adults kept going, vanishing into the trees. “Hi!” said mirror-Sam, brightly.

“Hi,” repeated Sam, faintly.

His mirror-self was still holding the shotgun, clearly too large and too heavy for him, and real-Dean held out a hand, “Let me take that.”

Mirror-Sam beamed at him. “Thanks, Dean!”

Dean was always looking out for him, Sam thought, real or not. He had kept Sam safe from so much, and he’d never realized. Sam had hated the way they were raised, knowing monsters were real and learning how to kill them. But he’d never understood how much of a childhood he’d actually had, all because of Dean.

But Sam hadn’t been as innocent as he’d once thought.

Six-year-old Sam already had demon blood in him, had already been chosen as the vessel of Lucifer. He was headed for darkness all along, letting all of that evil fester inside him until – 

“Whoa, hey, _Sammy_ ,” said Dean – real-Dean, and he squeezed Sam’s shoulder, hard.

Sam blinked.

Mirror-Sam still looked like a grade school student, but his skin had taken on the feverish look Sam’s had when he’d been regularly drinking demon blood. More blood was smeared on his hands and chin, looking especially horrific on his small face. The after-image of Ruby hung over the boy’s shoulder, clawed hand over his heart.

Real-Sam blinked again and she vanished, leaving his mirror image looking as it had when it first appeared.

“Hey,” said Dean again, softly. “You know that _I_ don’t think of you as that kid, right?”

Dean closed his eyes, apparently concentrating hard, and Sam’s mirror image became a true reflection. The two Sams stared at each other for a moment, before the reflection flickered, like a badly-tuned TV picture, blinking from kid to adult and back again.

“Okay,” his brother admitted. “Okay, maybe I _do_ see you like that. Sometimes. But only because… Look.”

He concentrated again, and mirror-Dean reappeared next to mirror-Sam. When the image flickered, they were both kids, ten-year-old mirror-Dean beaming and wrapping an arm around his brother.

“I know you’re an adult,” said Dean. “I trust you to have my back, with anything. But most of the time, I don’t feel any older or smarter than that guy there.”

“Four years is a big gap when you’re that age,” said Sam. “You always seemed so… ‘mature’ isn’t quite the right word…”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

“Responsible,” his brother said. “You had way more responsibilities than any kid should have had.”

“Yeah, well,” said Dean. “You turned out all right anyway.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah.”

“He is right, Sam,” said Cas. “It is true that your soul has been marked by what you are and what you have done…” He trailed off, frowning. “I don’t believe I am explaining this properly. Perhaps a visual representation would be better.”

Mirror-Cas appeared on mirror-Sam’s other side – real-Cas tilted his head and his reflection became a child, ten-year-old Jimmy Novak, wearing Cas’s trench coat and tie. He held up something in both hands, a jewel big enough to just fit in his cupped palms and glowing with an inner light.

“That is your soul,” said real-Cas.

Sam frowned. “But it’s…”

“Look closer.”

Mirror-Cas held the jewel out toward him. Up close, Sam could see that a few facets around the edge were not as clear as the others. On one side was a deep spidery crack, but it had been repaired with thin strands of gold.

“Oh,” Sam breathed. “That’s what you can see what you look at me?”

“No,” said Cas. “The human mind cannot possibly fathom the true appearance of the soul. This image is only a very crude approximation.”

Sam managed a laugh. “Okay.”

“Is that enough self-awareness now?” said Dean. “Can we go now?”

Sam looked at him, then at the three child-sized versions of Team Free Will, who were all grinning at each other.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”

Suddenly, the woods around them changed, no longer three-dimensional but more like a painting on the walls of the room they had only suspected was there earlier. A door stood opposite, wood-paneled like the one they’d come through, with a brass plaque that Sam was still trying to translate when Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder.

“Looks like you’re up next, buddy,” he said.

Sam frowned. “You can read Enochian?”

“I can read Cas’s name in Enochian,” Dean corrected, ears pink. 

That wasn’t actually any better, but Sam wasn’t going to push – he was too pleased that Dean and Cas had finally gotten their act together to tease them about it. Yet.

“Well, Cas,” Sam said, instead. “You ready?”

“There is only one way to find out,” said Cas, and opened the door.

The next room looked identical to the first – white marble floor, wood-paneled walls – except for the large statue at its center.

It was slightly larger than life-sized, in what Castiel thought the humans called the renaissance style. The statue showed an angel, as humans of the period often depicted them, human-formed and wrapped only in a billowing drapery, wings held high, angel blade in one hand and shield in another.

“Is that… you, Cas?” asked Sam, hesitantly.

It did resemble his current vessel, carved from the same white marble as the floor, but now a dull gray from age and grime. There were cracks all over the statue’s surface, deepest at its heart and radiating outward, clearly illustrating the ‘crack in his chassis’ that his siblings had often mentioned.

“Of course it is,” said Dean. “This is _his_ hippie self-actualization room. You need a minute, Cas, before we both tell you what a load of crap this thing is?”

The angel smiled. “I _am_ broken, Dean.”

He scowled. “So, Sam is a shiny jewel but you’re a broken statue? Is that what you think?”

“Apparently, it is,” said Castiel. “Since this image was drawn from my subconscious.”

He meant to sound more snappish, but this mirror-dimension was muffling his grace and making bothersome human emotions like doubt and self-recrimination more difficult to control.

Dean’s expression softened, but it was Sam who said, “Hey, you know we don’t care about you being an angel, right?” At Castiel’s frown, he added, “I mean, we’re glad you’re an angel. If _you’re_ glad you’re an angel. But we’re just as happy if you’re not. I mean, _you_ wouldn’t be happy because you like being an angel but—”

He broke off, looking sheepish. “Sorry. Visuals, huh? Here…”

The statue beside them shifted. It still bore the image of Castiel’s vessel, but was now wearing his customary suit and trench coat. The wings were still raised, as was the angel blade, but the expression was calm, protective. All the cracks had vanished, only fine lines remaining in the places where they had been.

“You’re always looking out for us,” said Sam. “Even if things don’t work out, I know you’re always on our side, angel or human or whatever. Right, Dean?”

His brother was still scowling. “You’re not a statue, Cas. You’re not some heart-of-stone Warrior of God. You’re a _person_. Angel person or human person, doesn’t matter. You’re one of us.”

Dean had been moving around the statue, and he stopped, facing it. “You’re _real_ ,” he said, and reached out to brush one hand along the statue’s marble cheek.

The stone changed instantly, shifting to warm human flesh, breathing and blinking and curling gentle fingers around the hunter’s wrist.

“Hello, Dean,” said mirror-Cas.

Dean smiled as he pulled away. “I like the real you, Cas.”

There was a sudden sound, like the flapping of giant wings, and mirror-Cas flickered, glowing blue. The outline of another shape formed around him – four heads, giant wings – and the eyes of Castiel’s vessel began to water.

“What the hell?” said Sam, alarmed.

“Sam, close your eyes!” Castiel yelled.

He made sure Sam had turned away, then moved to stand beside Dean, who was gazing up at the shape, awed.

“Dean,” said Castiel. “You must stop this.”

The hunter frowned. “Me? I’m not—”

“This is only a fraction of my true form, but it is still harmful. Dean, look at me.”

He blinked, human green eyes locked on the blue of Castiel’s vessel. “Hey, Cas.”

The light and noise slowed, then stopped, until mirror-Cas was standing alone in the middle of the room.

Sam straightened from where he’d ducked out of the way. “Cas? Did you say ‘true form’?”

“A brief glimpse of it, yes,” said Castiel. “Are you experiencing any nausea or bleeding?”

“Uh, no,” said Sam. “I’m good. But I thought the statue, the first one, was your own subconscious image of yourself?”

“It was,” he replied. “At least, a metaphor using human terms. No, it was Dean who conjured the image of my true form.”

“Because that’s what you are, Cas,” said Dean. “You’re… you’re a supernova the size of the Chrysler Building, stuck inside a holy tax accountant. All that power, and you choose to stay with us, eating burgers and watching _Star Trek_.”

Castiel smiled. “Perhaps that is because you continue to make me burgers and invite me to watch _Star Trek_.”

Dean smiled back, but Sam frowned again. “Wait, if that was _actually_ your true form, a piece of it, how did _Dean_ make it appear?”

“The human mind and nervous system can’t comprehend an angel’s true form,” said Castiel. “But the soul can. Dean’s soul still retains some memory of when I raised him from perdition.”

“I do?” said Dean. “Awesome!”

“You should be careful,” Castiel said, smiling. “I like looking into your eyes too much for you to risk them this way.”

Dean’s ears turned pink, but he darted in for a quick kiss. “Never change, Cas.”

“I have changed very much since I met you. Both of you. And I find it’s for the better.”

“Then you’re okay with yourself?” asked Sam. “Who you are?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I am.”

A door appeared on the other side of the room.

The door was wood-paneled and its gleaming brass plaque read _Dean Winchester_.

Dean took a deep breath, then wordlessly pushed it open.

This room was lighter than the others had been – not oak like the first room or deep mahogany like Cas’s, this paneling was all in pine, shined to a high polish. The floor was white marble, but these tiles had veins of a golden color through them. There were no lamps visible, but the entire space was lit by a warm, rosy glow.

And, in the middle of the room, stood an old-fashioned wooden barrel of apples.

“Apples?” said Sam, sounding confused. “I’d have expected apple _pie_ , sure, but…”

“Your brother’s mind is surprisingly complex, for a human,” said Cas. “And his emotions run deep. Don’t underestimate him.”

Dean bumped his fingers gently against Cas’s. He wasn’t sure if prayers worked inside this mirror, but from the angel’s soft smile when he sent a silent _Thanks, Cas_ , he suspected they might.

“Dean, I’m not trying to say you’re not, um, complex,” said Sam. “But normally, you hate metaphors and symbolism and stuff.”

“Actually,” said Cas, “Dean has become quite skilled at writing Enochian poetry.”

“Hey,” protested Dean, but Cas just smiled and caught his hand properly, lacing their fingers together.

“You should be praised for your accomplishments,” Cas told him.

“Um, right,” said Sam, and Dean’s attention snapped back to him. “So, what’s with the apples?”

Cas paused. “In ancient times, they represented the world, or great bounty. There was also the Apple of Discord, but—”

“Normal,” interrupted Dean. He squeezed Cas’s hand. “The apples mean ‘normal’.”

Sam clearly didn’t get it, but Cas nodded. “Apples are a common fruit, without a sharp flavor. They are used for human comfort foods – apple juice, applesauce, apple pie. And these are particular appealing examples, round and firm and no doubt delicious…”

He reached out with his free hand to take one, but Dean tugged him away sharply, “Cas, don’t!”

Cas pulled back instantly, but his wrist hit the edge of the barrel, shaking it slightly. The pile of apples shuddered, and a single apple rolled from the top. When it hit the floor, it cracked in two, as neatly as if it had been cut in half by a knife. But the inside was not ‘delicious’ as Cas had guessed – the flesh inside was _rotten_ , black slime clinging to the interior of the crisp outer skin, oozing onto the marble floor now that it was open.

“What the hell?” said Sam, but Dean ignored him.

Two more apples tumbled from the pile and cracked open, just as rotten inside as the first. Then, the floor where they had fallen began to turn black, as well, the slime creeping across the tile, which cracked in its wake, and up the wood-paneled wall, which started to rot as they watched. It reached the barrel, decay spreading upward until it collapsed. Apples spilled everywhere, splitting open as they fell, the slime pooling together on the floor until it began to form a shape.

It was clearly human and clearly dead, lying as though dumped there, blonde hair and burned nightgown barely distinguishable, but Dean knew exactly who it was.

He drew a long, shaky breath, still clutching Cas’s hand, as Mary Winchester’s body flashed briefly on fire, then became John’s, bruised and bloody. Then it became Pamela, eyes burned out, then Ash, then Ellen – Jo – Charlie – Benny – 

Then Sam, wearing the white suit from his vision of Zachariah’s apocalypse, the First Blade through his heart.

The Cas, unmarked except for the burnt pattern of wings on the marble floor.

Dean closed his eyes against images of all the people he had lost – people he had _killed_.

“Dean?” said Sam, in a shaky voice.

“This is what I’ve always been, Sammy,” he said, around the lump in his throat. He pulled slowly away from Cas, walking around mirror-Cas’s body, still on the floor. “I destroy everything I touch.”

“That’s not true,” said Sam. “That’s – _Dean_ , you know that’s not true.”

“Clearly, I don’t,” said Dean.

“But you’re the Righteous Man!”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna trust heaven’s judgement on _that_.”

“ _Dean_ ,” said Sam, again. “You’re my big brother. You’ve done nothing but look out for me my entire life. And not just me! You take care of everyone.”

“I get everyone killed,” said Dean.

“Of course you don’t. We do that on our own.”

“Sammy…”

“Look,” his brother demanded.

Dead mirror-Cas and all the rotten apples vanished, and mirror-Sam reappeared. He looked about eight years old this time, which meant that the mirror-Dean who took his hand must have been about twelve or thirteen. They walked toward the front door of a school – they’d gone to more than one every year, and Dean couldn’t identify this particular one – where a group of vaguely-visualized kids waited.

“ _Hey, Dean_ ,” said one. “ _Who’s this?_ ”

“This is my brother, Sam,” said mirror-Dean. “He’s cool.”

The image shifted and mirror-Sam and mirror-Dean, slightly older, were sitting at a table in a crappy motel room, cleaning guns in comfortable silence. Then, they were standing at a cracked mirror, mirror-Dean teaching mirror-Sam to shave – then sleeping in the back seat of the Impala, curled up together like puppies – then letting mirror-Sam take the lead on an easy hunt.

Then, little mirror-Sam was back, just smiling and holding mirror-Dean’s hand.

“I…” began real-Sam. “It all got jumbled, when we were kids. You were always trying to be like Dad, and I always wanted to be like you. But then Dad and I were always fighting and neither of you could see the difference.”

“Then I guess we both let you down,” said Dean.

“Would you just listen?” Sam demanded, frustrated. “Do you know how many times I almost called you, after I left? The night before I proposed to Jess, I actually let it ring. I wanted you to tell me I was doing the right thing. To tell you about my life. Because you’re still my big brother.”

Dean shook his head. “Yeah, I showed up and your girlfriend got killed, just like Mom. I dragged you back into all this. Cas, too – if he hadn’t had to pull my sorry ass out of hell, he’d still be fine and dandy up in heaven. You’d have both been better off without me.”

“Don’t you dare,” growled Cas. He had been quiet for so long that both brothers jumped. “I will not allow anyone to speak so poorly about the man I love. Even himself.”

“Cas…”

“No, Dean. You refuse to listen when I try to tell you how good, how caring, how _amazing_ you are. But now I will be able to show you.”

“ _Cas…_ ”

The walls around them changed.

They were standing suddenly at the heart of a storm at sea. It wasn’t as three-dimensional as the woods from Sam’s room – the walls, floor and ceiling here all clearly visible – but it felt just as real. Dean could feel the sharp wind, taste the salt in the air. 

Lightning flashed, illuminating the rapidly-beating wings of a small black bird, flying just above the surface of the water. It was clearly struggling, soaked and exhausted, and Dean fought the urge to reach out to it, to cradle it in his hands and keep it safe.

“The bird symbolizes me,” Cas explained and Dean frowned.

“The bird? Cas, aren’t you the _storm_?”

The angel shook his head. “The storm is… life. Existence. It rages around us without any care for individual lives.”

“Then what are we here?” asked Dean. “Something too small to even see, right? Like those tiny stupid bugs?

“I believe you mean gnats,” said Cas. “But, no. You are the light, Dean.”

Another flash of lightning showed them a rocky cliff ahead, far in the distance, and a bright golden light shining from its peak. Bird-Cas clearly saw it, too – he sped up, fighting against the howling wind to reach it. The scene moved around them, staying even with the bird’s flight, as it kept going. As it neared the cliff, they could see that the light was coming from beneath a stone overhang. Inside the cliff was a pile of sticks, that didn’t look quite right, somehow.

Dean took a step closer – it was a nest, some of the branches regular wood, but some a dark, shiny lacquer, the color of Baby’s paint job. Inside the nest were bits of fabric, plaid flannel and gray dead guy robe and a scrap of something that could have been from Cas’s trench coat.

The light was coming from another bird, sitting in the nest. Beside it was a large jewel, like the one Cas had used to show Sam his soul. But this one glowed so much more brightly, a warm golden light that spread from the little overhang and out into the storm.

Bird-Cas got nearer, clearly at the end of its strength, and collapsed into the nest. “Hello, Dean,” it said.

The other bird put a dappled brown wing over it. “Hey, Cas,” it said, with Dean’s voice.

“Cas?” asked real-Dean.

“You are my home, Dean,” the angel said, softly. “You are a place of shelter, and a bright light that guides me there. Your soul is so beautiful, Dean. It radiates, not just light, but warmth and comfort.”

Dean frowned. “I’m not…”

“You _are_ ,” said Sam, suddenly. “You’re the Righteous Man.”

“And ain’t that a laugh,” scoffed Dean.

“I think that you both misunderstand that word,” said Cas. “Righteousness is not fair or just or kind. It is not bound by any human code of laws. Righteousness will kill those who harm the innocent, even if it is not honorable. It is doing what is right, instead of what is easy.”

Dean drew in a long, slow breath, then blinked and said, “Did you just quote Dumbledore at me?”

Cas smiled. “I find him an intriguingly flawed character, but nevertheless inspirational. And you recognized it.”

“He’s got you there,” laughed Sam. “Are you okay now?”

“I…” said Dean, looking around. The room still showed the ocean, but it was calm now, and the two birds, Cas and Dean, were snuggled up together in their nest. 

Cas followed his gaze and smiled again – another bird flew to join them, a slightly darker brown than bird-Dean.

Dean smiled back. “Maybe not all the way,” he allowed. “Maybe I’ll still need some help with this, but… yeah. I’m okay.”

The mirror appeared on the far wall, showing an image of the dusty storage room. A moment later, there was a flash of light and the three of them were back in the Bunker.

“I am building that thing a _case_ , muttered Dean. “Cas, I want a warning label, in every language you know.”

“Even Klingon?” the angel asked.

“How do you know—?” Sam began, but his brother interrupted, “ _All_ of ‘em, Cas.”

“Very well,” said Cas. He paused, then added, “Do we have many spare blankets here?”

“We might have to wash some of them,” said Dean. “But, yeah, there’s plenty. Why?”

“I believe I would like to try the human equivalent of a nest.”

Dean blinked, then grinned. “A blanket fort? I’m in! Sammy?”

His brother grinned, but shook his head. “You two lovebirds have fun, though.”

“Well, in that case, we can build your nest on our bed, Cas. It’ll be more… comfy, that way.”

Cas nodded. “That will be an ideal foundation. Plus, it will be easier for us to have sex in it.”

“ _Guys_ ,” protested Sam, laughing.

“Apologies,” said Cas. “Where did you say the extra blankets were, Dean.”

Dean took his hand. “This way…”

THE END


End file.
